Disclaimer: This is the delightful sequel to "A Savage Pantsing." Therefore, I own my characters, Al and Emily. (See, she has a name now.) I do not, however, own the Scarecrow, Batman, Robin, Batgirl, or a million dollars. So sueing me would be a bit silly, wouldn't it?

Enjoy the horrible revenge!

P.S. This story is rated M for language. Ye has beens warnsed.

Jonathan Crane:

"Did I ever tell you about the time I almost died?" I whisper to my captive. She is Alice Hare, Al to her friends, twenty-nine years old, mousy, thick glasses. Once a promising medical student, my intern. I won't say I was fond of her then, but I would not have gone out of my way to harm her, not until after the night she and her friend surprised me in my office.

"No, of course I never told you. But you remember it, don't you. You were there." She trembles now in fear of me, her eyes dilated and magnified to huge proportions behind her glasses. This fear is a learned behavior. I am not naturally an intimidating man. I am not wearing my mask. This one, of all people, would not be as frightened of the mask as she is of my own face.

"Tell me about it, Alice. Tell me in your own words."

--

Al:

I've been called crazy my whole life, reckless, foolhardy, mental. But one thing I'm not is stupid, at least not stupid enough to defy this man. I've been to the opera with Oswald Cobblepot. Harvey Dent has called me a dirty double dealer. Pamela Isley gave me flowers for my last birthday.

I've led my gang safely away from Jim Gordon and the Batman.

No one scares me like this man, Jonathan Crane. The Scarecrow.

"We didn't mean to hurt you," I say, speaking frantically against my will. "You woke up sooner than I expected. You would have killed us, wouldn't you? You killed her mother!"

"Begin at the beginning," he says, leaning close to me, his face a mask of perfect calm. I draw a shivery breath, trying to calm my growing hysteria—trying not to give him anything.

"You killed the old lady with your fear toxin. That was the first clue. I didn't know what it was, but I saw in your files that nobody who got that stuff stayed right in the head long after. I wanted some help investigating, so I got Em to help me. It wasn't her idea. She was just handy because she worked there and we lived together. I barely knew the girl, I was just using her, and she wasn't even very useful. I'm the one who had to do all the work." He hears the lie in my voice, but doesn't call me on it. "It was my idea to drug your coffee. You always told me to make coffee when you went to…" I can't say it.

"Ward 5," he finishes. I hear the echo of a scream. I want to die.

"I was supposed to warn her when you started to wake up. I tried, but…you killed her mother. She found out you were up to something and she tried to blackmail you, didn't she? So you killed her." He nods equitably, showing neither pride nor shame. I want to punch his fragile little face in. I want to beat him to a bloody pulp. I want to watch his bones melt under my fists like spun sugar. I want to fight him the way I've seen my boys fight, graceless and brutal. I wonder if he knows I'm feeling more angry than afraid. "You don't even care, do you?" He shrugs.

"There are things that should frighten you more than death," he says. "Go on with the story."

"I tried to stop you from seeing her. Knocking you out was an accident, but after that we couldn't go back. We just wanted to hide our identities. I had been asking around, trying to see if you were the kind of person who would really do this, but no one really seemed to know you. I did talk to a security guard, a real asshole who went to high school with you. He told me this story about when you were fourteen, he and his friends beat you up, stripped you down to your underwear, and tied you op on the football field." For an instant, Dr. Crane looks like he's bitten into something sour. I wonder if it would be wise to upset him. "They forgot about you, and nobody found you the next day, like they expected. You were stuck there, hanging over the football field, all weekend. It must have been terrifying," I say sympathetically.

His hands slam against the wall on either side of my head. He leans in closer, his face contorted with fury.

"Terrifying? You don't know terrifying. Not yet."

"You spit on me."

He slaps me. I begin to laugh.

"You hit like my granny, Scarecrow."

He turns and leaves the room, enraged, and I grin. This is what I studied as a young psychiatrist-in-training. This is my favorite tactic to employ against my enemies as a crime lord. This is what has always fascinated me.

Ridicule. Humiliation.

Oh, shit.

He comes back in, wearing his Scarecrow mask, carrying something small and shiny. I have a split second of understanding before he gasses me.

Then I'm sobbing and begging him not to hurt me. His expression under the mask probably mirrors mine of a few seconds ago.

"Just finish the story, Alice."

"P-please—please—"

"Finish it." The voice is a deep growl. I think it cannot possibly be coming from the throat of mild little Dr. Crane.

Then my mind tells me that there is nothing behind this mask, Dr. Crane is dead, we murdered him nine years ago on a rooftop in December.

"I'm sorry," I sob. "It's all my fault. But I didn't mean to kill him!"

"Kill who?" prompts the Scarecrow.

"Dr. Crane! I wanted to get him back for what happened to Emily when we found the toxin, that's all. I didn't mean to really hurt him."

"What did you do?"

"He was going to see Emily in his office, so I tripped him to give her time to run. But he hit his head. Then I thought we could mess with him and turn his attention to that asshole guard. If anyone had to suffer for this, I thought it should be the guy who laughed while telling a total stranger about torturing a little boy. He laughed and said, 'They had to take the scarecrow to the hospital because—because—'" I'm crying too hard to speak.

"What did you say before you tripped him?"

"What?"

"What did you say?"

--

Scarecrow:

She won't answer—perhaps she honestly doesn't remember—so I say it for her.

"'Wait! I have to stall you!'"

"No," she sobs.

"He knew it was you all along."

"No!"

"I would have come for you anyway. Everything you did was needless." She tries to turn away. There is nowhere for her to go. "The only thing you accomplished was to bring your friend to my attention as well."

"No!" Alice screams. "Emily didn't do anything. It was all me. You have no reason to go after her. I'm the one who hurt you. I did everything!"

"But, Alice," I say calmly, "those who watch and do nothing are as guilty as those who act."

"But she saved you," she says frantically. "When you—he—" She is confused, trying to reconcile her drug-induced fantasies with reality. "Dr. Crane wasn't breathing. Emily tried to save him."

"That was her mistake, wasn't it?"

I can see this woman's mind like a map spread out before me. She has little trouble causing pain, but she needs the illusion that the pain she causes is necessary and deserved.

I had always planned to destroy Emily Burke as well as her friend. Now I decide that Alice will still be sane when it happens.

It takes longer to extract my information without destroying her mind, but after a few days of careful work, Alice gives me the address.

--